In yet a further attempt to transform this sad little space into some kind of nutty-crunchy-huggy feel-good site, I'm here today to offer yet another charming lesson on your life and how to live it.

Today's talk will discuss endorphins.

As I've been (inadvertently, I swear) discussing my various successful weight-loss plans through my long decades, I've been riding the stationary recumbent bike at the gym semi-regularly on my doctor's strong and firm suggestion. For a variety of reasons, not all of them related to my own fat-assed laziness, I haven't been going for the last couple-three weeks. I finally dragged myself over to the gym for a session...

...and the (bad kind of) funk that had infiltrated my head lately, the greek chorus of ex-girlfriends and ex-bosses and ex-friends and ex-bandmates would line up int the folds and crevices of my grey matter and delineate my every fault and shortcoming, it all magically disappeared.

I had begun to understand why some people take to chemical abuse - it's just to silence what really can only be termed as 'those voices'. The smallest setback or obstacle during my day would set me to remembering fondly those halcyon days of my youth where stepping into the bar at noon was both socially acceptable (and even encouraged) and feasible.

But, because I'm now forced into the weird role of 'grown-up' (how the fuck did that happen?), that sort of behavior is not really possible (as long as I want to maintain the happy perks of maturity - job, house, wonderful family and like that).

So with all of this bloody turmoil in my skull, I finally, like I say, dragged my fat ass over to the gym and morosely mounted the bike, turned the iPod onto stun volume and began pedalling mindlessly.

It surprised me when the clock on the wall told me I had been pedalling for my alloted twenty minutes, and it surprised me even more when I tried to resume my fretting and feeling crappy...

...and I couldn't. The greek chorus had disappeared and my every internal entreaty to them fell upon deaf ears. A startling sense of well-being had entered, shining a bright light in those nooks and crannies where the ugly thoughts had lived earlier.

And so I discovered that those disgustingly bubbly exerniks were telling the truth. Excercise does apparently release endorphins into your brain, and those endorphins do make you feel better.

I don't think this will make me give up beer, but maybe I'll crave that sweet hoppy release a little less before noon.